


Low Place Like Home

by conceptofzero



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourteen snapshots of pre-Felt gangsters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Low Place Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Herein lies lots of speculation on their pre-Felt lives. Sticking with their Felt names just to save time and effort while reading.

_Itchy_

Itchy's happiest here: gas pedal mashed into the very floor of this one-ton boat of the car, the uneasy shift of loose gravel and dirt under his tires making him skid this way and that. He's alive here, so fucking alive, going as fast as any living thing can possibly go.

There's a thousand dollars worth of liquor in the backseat, the boxes trying to slam against either side of the door every time he takes a sharp corner. But they're all tied in place, and he knows exactly what his baby can do, how to yank just right on the wheel so she snaps straight instead of dumping him into the ditch and throwing him out the windshield and breaking his neck like a toothpick. The gravel skids underneath his tires and the booze jitters like it's a Saturday night, but nothing breaks and nothing gives and Itchy goes tearing down the road.

He hears the ratta-tat of machine gun fire behind him but he's not afraid. Itchy's too fast for those men and their cars, their guns hanging out the windows as they try to get a bead on the fastest thing on four wheels. There's the familiar THUNK THUNK THUNK of lead penetrating steel as they get a bead on the car and all his hair stands up on end. If he had a passenger, they'd be pissing themselves, and that is exactly why Itchy always drives on his own. He doesn't have time to deal with screaming terrified people when he's doing his thing. Itchy's not afraid of some bullets or a few close shaves, 'cause he's Itchy and he's done this before and do it again.

Heart pounding in his chest, he yanks the wheel back and forth. The gravel gives way under the tires and he starts fishtailing, the back-end of the car yanking hard left, hard right, hard left again. His tires kick up a thick cloud of dust, spitting gravel every which way. Itchy holds tight to the wheel, snapping it back and forth with just the right rhythm to keep from crashing and burning, or taking a bullet to the back of the skull.

And while the bastards behind him can't see a thing, he yanks his wheel hard-right, car roaring straight of the road. The assholes behind him go zipping through the dirt cloud and Itchy smacks his head on the roof of the car as the auto slams down the steep embankment, bouncing him like a rubber ball. Despite every law of nature that says he should be splattered like a bug on his own windshield, the car lands on the road below, driver and auto in one piece. Those assholes will be so confused, looking around for Itchy and seeing nothing but a dying cloud of dust. They won't even think to look for tracks heading off the road. Only a nutcase would drive like that.

In the backseat, the bottles clink against one another and the whole car sounds like the world's rowdiest wedding reception, a hundred toasts all at once. Itchy glances in the rearview mirror, and hollars with glee when he sees he's given those idiots the slip. They'll figure out where he went sooner or later, but by the time they do, he'll have a solid lead, and there's nobody alive who can catch him when he's got those extra minutes on his side.

His foot stays heavy on the gas as he rockets along the bumpy dirt road, the edges of the city coming into sight. Home sweet home.

 

 _Doze_

If there's one thing Doze is good at, it's waiting. The shipment is three hours late and everyone else is restless and pissed, but Doze is still patiently waiting by the side of the swamp, eyes peeled for the tell-tale lamp to mark the boat's bow.

A thick mist lies over everything, and deep in the swamp, the familiar croaks of frogs sound here and there, the four-legged creatures calling to one another and passing along all sorts of information. Dozen listens to them, slowly puzzling out their meanings. There's a love-call, and there's a warning-call, and there's someone just yelling their head off just so they're not so bored.

He takes a sip from his flask, fighting off the chill of the night. Doze is in no rush. Going home isn't anything special to him. It's not like he's got somebody waiting on him. He lives alone in an apartment the size of a matchbox. At least out here, he's got all the space he could ever need.

One of the other guys turns on the radio, and the soft sound of jazz floats through the air and over the water. Doze can hear somebody arguing to turn it down before anyone else hears. He stays out of the fight, knowing better to get involved when they would just run circles around him and tire Doze right out. He sometimes wishes he had the time to think up a good insult or argue his way out of a conversation. But he's always just a little too slow.

The frogs go quiet one by one. Doze keeps his eyes on the place they were.

The radio goes quiet too and one of the guys walks over, "Three hours is too much. We're going back."

"They'll be here in five minutes," Doze tells him, eyes looking at the thick mist, "Four minutes now."

"Pull the other one, it's got bells on it," He says, peering out over the water. The fog hangs thickly over the surface, a few fireflies darting here and there.

"Bet you five bucks that they're here in four minutes. Three now." Doze glances up.

He knows people think he's thick. This one really believes it because he laughs and says, "Sure. Three minutes."

Doze nods and keeps his eyes on the quiet spot. As the frogs start to croak again, the lamp finally comes into sight, burning off the heavy fog. He glances up at the man who now owes him five bucks, "You can owe me."

It's worth the shocked look Doze gets. He slowly pulls himself to his feet and waves down the boat carrying enough arms to lead a revolution.

 

 _Trace_

He's been tailing this guy for three days now, eating cheap take-out and sleeping briefly in his car. The car smells like old noodles and perspiration and it's an unpleasant surprise everytime he steps back into his car.

Trace misses his apartment and good food, and more than all of that, he misses showers. He would give anything for half an hour under hot water, rinsing away the stale smell of sweat. But he's too close to quit.

His target pulls up another apartment building and Trace quietly parks half a block away, close enough to see but not so close that he'll notice the car. He stays put while the man gets out. This guy probably smells like roses and unicorn farts. He hasn't been wearing the same clothes for three days. Hell, Trace has seen him in no less than seven different outfits in three days. Trace doesn't even own seven different outfits. It's an impressive day at the Casa Del Trace when he comes home with a brand new pair of pants.

But it's fine. It's all good. Trace keeps his eyes on the prize, and here comes the prize right now, sixteen and beautiful, running down the steps to greet her father. She's prettier than the rumors said she was. A girl that pretty is worth her weight in gold, and that's exactly what Trace's boss is going to demand in exchange.

Her father embraces her tightly, smiling at her as only a father can. He won't be smiling for long, not once he shows up at her apartment in a few days time and finds it empty and a note on the table. Trace doesn't worry about what will happen to her. He never worries about the future. He just worries about getting the job done, and maybe his next paycheck. Life's easier if you're looking back instead of looking ahead.

Trace watches from the car, waiting for them to go inside before making a move. He's all too happy to finally get out of his car, stretching out the aches and pains in his legs and arms, and ignoring the way his back throbs. Trace makes sure to take a look around before heading after them, just in case the fella has a few men watching the building. But he doesn't see anybody lingering anywhere nearby.

He slowly follows them into the building, listening to their voices and keeping hidden around corners. Trace heads up the stairs after them, hearing the sound of a door opening just as he reaches the top floor. He tips his head around the corner, getting a look at the door before it closes. 4-C. Perfect.

Trace heads back out, taking his time. Nervous guys get noticed. Calm guys don't get seen by anybody. But he doesn't waste time either, even if he knows the father's going to stick around for a few hours. The sooner he gets out of here, the sooner he can swing by and let his boss know where the girl's been hiding. And as soon as he's been paid for his troubles, he can go straight home and shower until his skin peels off.

And that is going to make the past three days completely worth it.

 

 _Clover_

Clover's trying, and failing, to get one of the dancer's numbers when a dealer pops his head in the back, "We need the Cooler over at table 54."

He looks up, feeling his shoulders slip a little. Of course they need him. They always need him when things might be on the verge of going good. He slides off his chair, landing on the floor, grabbing his jacket and hat. As he backs out of the room, he tells the dancer, "Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back."

She won't be there when he comes back, but Clover hopes. He's always been good at hoping. His whole life has been spent hoping that maybe this time, things will work out. But he never grew those extra two feet he needed, and he never managed to get out of the orphanage, and he never kept a girl for longer than two weeks, and he knew that this wouldn't be the time his unlucky streak broke.

The dealer slips him three hundred dollars in chips and then disappears. It's bad luck to be hanging around the cooler, especially if you're a dealer. The bad luck might rub off, and then you'll end up dealing out good hands to everybody but you. And that would be the end of Clover's job, just like the end of so many others.

It's kinda ironic. In any other job, his bad luck would have gotten him fired by now. But his bad luck is the only reason why Clover's still working here. There's a Cooler in every casino, a guy whose luck is so awful that he could catch on fire during a rainstorm or drown in a half an inch of water, a guy who never holds onto a penny or a girl, who spends his whole life behind the 8-ball. That's the guy who sits in the back and waits for somebody to start winning too much money, and then he heads out to make sure he passes some of that back luck along.

There's nobody half as good as Clover at this job. Clover's got all the luck – it just happens to be bad luck instead of good luck. The little guy tucks his hat onto his head and makes his way to 54, a roulette wheel. There's a recently vacated spot, possibly vacated by force, and Clover takes it, "Room for one more?"

"There's always room for someone else," The high roller is in high spirits, his stack of chips large and overflowing. It won't look like that after a few rounds. The only way for him to win now would be to pack up all his chips and leave immediately. Even that wouldn't be a guarantee though. If he left now with his cash, he'd just get hit while crossing the street, or suffer some sort of other stroke of bad luck.

"Thanks," Clover tosses his chips on the table, picking 00's. He has a fondness for the double zeros. Clover's never won a dollar doing this, but he likes the risky bets, the high stakes. Then when he loses, it's easier to blame it on the odds instead of on himself, "Maybe some of your luck with rub off on me!"

"Maybe!" The high-roller claps Clover on the shoulder. That's all that's needed, just one simple touch to sour the man's luck for the rest of the night, maybe even the rest of the month. Two more spins, and he'll be lucky to walk away from the table with a quarter of his fortune. But he won't. He'll play to get it back, and he'll lose it all instead.

The dealer spins the wheel and Clover just settles in, watching the ball bounce from rut to rut.

 

 _Fin_

Fin hates horses. He really, really hates them. Everything about them. Their weird long faces, the heavy smell that just lurks in the air like a mugger in a backalley, those awful noises they make, everything. And maybe most of all, the way they kick.

His leg's still aching from the last blow, and he picks himself off the ground, regarding the horse with the nastiest look he can manage. The mare sidles in her tiny stall, making it impossible for Fin to go back in. Not that he'd want to now that she's left a hoofprint on his leg that's going to bruise.

"Fine, we'll do this the hard way," He tells her, limping down the hall. The rest of the horses stay calmly in their stalls, tails swishing this way and that. They won't be getting worked up. There's just enough tranq in their systems to keep them calm and just a little slow. Not enough for the racing judges to notice hopefully, but enough to give a horse with good odds that extra push.

Fin comes around the stalls and squishes in through the thin maintenance space between the stalls and the wall. He stops in front of the trouble horse, Daddy's Little Showgirl, and digs out his bottle of backup, along with a tiny sponge and a tube. Fin uncorks the bottle and does his best not to smell the noxious mess, soaking the sponge in it and recorking quickly. He gets the sponge on the end of the tube and leans over the top of the stall.

The horse spots him and tries to pull away, her head quickly hitting the end of the rope. Fin gets up a little to give him the reach, and leans out with the sponge. And while Daddy's Little Showgirl is baring her teeth at him and trying to break her rope, he quickly shoves the sponge into her nose.

Her reaction happens instantly. She screams and smashes into the opposite wall, then charges forward. Fin drops the tube and gets the hell out of the way, barely missing the bitch as she slams into the front of her stall. This shakes the walls of all the stalls, but nothing gives or breaks. Fin keeps his back to the wall and quickly gets out of the tunnel.

By the time he's around the end, the backup bottle has already begun to work. The horse's aggregated struggles have started to die down as she breathes in the mix of diluted chloroform and nitrous oxide. It won't be long before it finishes kicking in and she falls asleep on her feet. She might die too, but Fin's willing to take that risk. A big animal like her should be fine, but only time will tell.

If she lives, the sponge in her nose should go undetected for a long time. When, or if, they do find it, they probably won't be sure which race it's from. He doesn't like using the sponge too often, it seems too inhumane. But he's got a job to do, and he's doing it one way or another. Heaven's Rowboat has thirty-to-one odds on her, and Fin's getting 10% of the winnings if he manages to make sure that every other horse in the race is well behind Heaven's Rowboat. He's not great with math, but even he knows that 10% at thirty-to-one odds is a lot of money, more than enough to pay off his own gambling debts.

Fin grabs his stuff and heads down the stalls, looking for the next scheduled mare. He's got four hours before the race starts, and he needs to be long gone by the time the jockeys show up. He doesn't even want to think about what'll happen if they catch him here. Only three more horses to go, and then he'll be on easy street, where he belongs.

It's been a long time, and a lot of bets, but this time it's going to pay off. It has to.

 

 _Die_

His fingers absently play with the deck in his hand, twisting and turning it, shuffling and reshuffling, pulling cards in and out without thinking about it. Waiting is the worst part of any stakeout and this is no exception, the time just dragging on and on. He's nervous tonight, but that's no surprise.

"Stop it," The gangster sitting beside Die tells him, eyes focused on the building up ahead, "And stop playing with that stupid fucking deck."

"Sorry. Nervous habit," He cuts the desk and pulls out three cards, doing a quick reading. Three of Swords. Four of Cups. The Fool. Not a good reading, but the Fool card is promising. Die could use a new beginning. He looks to the fellow sitting beside him and reshuffles the deck, "Want to hear your fortune?"

"I don't believe in that stuff," He says, eyes still fixed on the exit, "It's all bullshit."

"No it isn't," Die finishes shuffling, "I'll prove it. Here, you cut the deck."

"What part of ‘it's all bullshit' didn't you get? I don't know how it was with your last partner, but I expect you to do your damn job," This new guy is a real jerk. Die would rather be anywhere else now, but he does as he's told, and the boss has given him some very specific instructions regarding this new partner.

Die cuts the deck again, about to do another reading. He pulls out the Queen of Cups and his fingers tremble a little. He shuffles the deck quickly, not wanting to see the other two cards. It's never a good sign when she shows up in his readings. The ending is always bleak.

He calms himself down and gets the deck in order, holding it out again to his new partner, "Nothings happening out there," Die keeps his voice calm and steady, as if they're having a perfectly normal conversation, "Aren't you even a little curious to know what the future's got in hold for you?"

The gangster sighs, staring down Die. But he gives in and cuts the deck, chooses a card. Die can see that him trying to puzzle it out, turning it in his hands, "What's Judgement mean?"

"Means that the Boss knows you've been skimming," Die says softly. The guys eyes widen and he goes for his gun, but Die's faster. He shoots him in the head. The sound of the gunshot booms inside the car, and the driver-side window breaks as the bullet goes straight through the man's skull. The body falls backwards, head leaning out the broken window.

His ears ache from the enclosed boom, but Die's used to it by now. It's not the first time he's fired a gun inside a car. He ignores the pain and grabs his deck, tucking it in his coat and getting out of the car. Nobody peeks their heads out the windows nearby to see what's going on. They're too smart to do anything that dumb in this neighbourhood. He bundles himself tight in his coat and heads away as quickly as he can.

Die leaves the bloody Judgement card behind. He's got a dozen more like it at home.

 

 _Crowbar_

He should probably be doing this in a dirty cement basement somewhere, but Crowbar's never been one for following expectations. The bathroom is white, which is great because it means he can always spot any bloodstains left behind and clean them up.

Right now, the floor's a mess. Crowbar's toolbox is sitting on the sink with the lid open and all the drawers folded out. He's been cycling through his usual set of tools: pliers, screwdrivers, ball-peen hammer, chisel, clamp, files, tinsnips, and utility knife. All the sorts of things you'd expect to find in a toolbox if say the cops pulled you over and wanted to search your car. The essentials.

Crowbar never uses this tools for puttering around the house. They're his work tools, and he keeps them nice and clean, except for when he's using them.

He picks up the tinsnips, squeezing them. The spring creaks, and the man tied to the chair jolts up at the sound. Crowbar smiles, "I thought I'd lost you for a moment."

The man bleeds, trembling softly. He's finally stopped pulling at his bonds. He's not getting out that way. Crowbar always double-checks his knots before he begins. The last thing he needs is somebody getting loose in the middle. That's how you end up dead. He's too much of a professional to get killed with his own hammer.

He squeezes the tinsnips again, and on the second creak, the bookie speaks, "i-i didn't. I didn't rig anything."

"I'd like to believe you. I don't get this far with most people," Crowbar speaks candidly, honestly, knowing that it will encourage the man to open up, "Usually, when I guy sticks to his guns even after I take off his fingernails, it means something."

He can see the hope in the guy's eye, the exact moment when he thinks that maybe he's going to come out of this okay. Crowbar always enjoys that moment. No matter how many hours they are into an interrogation, no matter how badly hurt someone is, their entire face changes the moment they think they see the light at the end of the tunnel. It's inspiring.

"But we know all about your secret bank account," Crowbar adds, and just watches the hope die, "You're a tough son of a bitch, I'll give you that. Now give me what I want, and this can be over."

"You're just going to kill me," The bookie says, blood dripping out of his mouth.

"Yes, I am," Crowbar reaches out and slips the tinsnips over a pinky finger, "But there's a big difference between me doing it now, or doing it in six hours time."

For a moment, it looks like the bookie's going to speak. Crowbar waits and listens. But instead, he spits out, "Fuck you. I didn't take nothing."

Crowbar glances down at his shirt and the spots of blood there. There's going to be a lot more by the time they're done. He squeezes the tinsnips shut and starts again.

 

 _Stitch_

He's woken by a knock at his door in the middle of the night. Stitch never used to be a light sleeper, but his line of work has made it so he wakes up the moment he hears anybody knocking on his door. He gets out of bed, ignoring the ache in his bones and grabs a bathrobe and a pair of pants. Before he answers the door, he makes sure to grab his gun, slipping it into the pocket of the bathrobe. When he finaly opens the door on the third set of knocking, there's a young kid on the other side, face all pale, "Are you the sawbones?"

"That's me," He looks out and sees the car sitting in the driveway. Stitch can hear the other kid all the way up on the second story of his building, moaning up a storm, "Gunshot?"

The first kid nods. Stitch can't see, but he can usually tell just by listening. He's probably been shot in the guts. Hurts like hell, takes forever to kill you, and is a mess to fix up. Good thing he wasn't planning on getting any sleep tonight, "Grab him and bring in." The kid nods and bolts down the stairs, heading to the car.

Stitch walks down the stairs and reaches the ground level, unlocking the backdoor to his office. He motions for the kid to bring the car closer. As the car pulls up, Stitch gets a good look at the boy in the backseat of the car. He's no older than eighteen, trying to hold onto his guts with a pair of bloody hands. Stitch doesn't bother speculating on what went wrong. He doesn't care about that, only about getting the kid off of the street and into his clinic.

They carry him into the back. Animals pace and whine and make noise in their silver cases, the smell of blood riling them up. No matter how many men end up back here, the animals never get used to 'em, or to the smell of human blood. Stitch can barely tell the difference between human and animal blood these days. It all looks the same, and it all washes out the same.

Stitch cuts open the kid's shirt and has a look at the wound. It's nasty, but it doesn't look like the bullet hit anything that can't be sew up. But before he gets to work, he puts his hand out, "Cash up front or I don't touch him."

"What?" The kid looks at Stitch like he's just said something unreasonable, "No, Big Al said to come to you. He didn't say nothing about money."

"Then Big Al told you a lie. I'm not touching him until I've got cash in my hands,'" Stitch tucks his free hand into his bathroom, gripping the pistol. Sometimes this gets ugly. Sometimes they don't have the cash, and they get desperate and dumb, and Stitch has to get rid of two bodies instead of just one. The kid's waffling, eyes darting over to his friend who's bleeding out on the table. He's a good two hours away from dying, but the kid doesn't know that, and the way his friend is moaning up a storm is doing plenty to convince him that he's got to act now, or not at all.

The kid reaches for his back pocket and Stitch keeps a hand on the gun, waiting to see what he draws. All he pulls out is his wallet and he digs out his money, "All I got is forty."

"Then you'll get forty dollars worth of work," Stitch takes the money and tucks it into the other pocket of his robe.

"What if he dies? I get my money back if he dies, right?" The kid looks at his friend, and Stitch can see the kid starting to reconsider his choice. It's just another reminder to Stitch why being a crabby hermit is the best way to go through life. Animals will never regret handing money over to have him taken care of. They'll just let him die in the first place.

"He won't die," Stitch tells the kid and heads over to wash his hands. He's not blustering either. Kid won't die now that Stitch is working on him. There's nobody better than Stitch at gutwounds. There's also nobody who would be able to do all of this for $40, except for Stitch.

That's what makes him a great surgeon. That, and all the practice he's had on cattle and sheep. After you dig a couple of rotten lambs out of a sheep, sewing up a man's guts is nothing.

 

 _Sawbuck_

The joint is hopping tonight. Outside, you can only hear the whisper of jazz, but inside the club, deep underground, the volume is deafening. The band is good, a bunch of young guys who are willing to play for next to nothing and some free booze, and the crowd is as young as them, spending their money without a second thought.

Sawbuck's working the bar tonight and his feet are starting to ache from all the running he's been doing. It seems like they're running out of something every ten minutes, and he keeps having to head to the back to see if he can find more whiskey or gin or whatever else, or at least find a replacement.

He's fetching a bottle of whiskey when he hears someone crying. Sawbuck, always a sucker for a damsel in need, heads towards it. He finds the source in one of the tight hallways, some young flapper trapped in the corner while this guy nearly twice her height talks to her. He can't hear what the guy's saying, but it's enough to get her crying pretty hard.

Sawbuck draws his gun and approaches them quietly. The girl notices before the guy and says nothing to warn the fella. Sawbuck just jams the barrel of the gun into the guy's spine, and that gets his attention, "Why don't you head on out. I think you've had enough to drink."

The guy casts Sawbuck a look, clearly shocked to see that some short fat guy is ordering him around, but Sawbuck just makes his point with the gun, reminding the big guy that he should be real careful about what he says to the man with a gun in his back, "Fine. I was just leaving anyway."

Sawbuck keeps his gun on the guy until he's out of the hall and then he checks on the flapper, "You okay? Do you got any friends here-"

His questions go unanswered as she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. She tastes like cherry whiskey and Sawbuck just lets her express her gratitude, settling a hand just above her ass. Not for the first time in his life, being a gentleman with a pistol pays off big.

 

 _Matchsticks_

There's something real nice about the smell of gasoline. Yeah, it stinks and burns but it's a good sorta stink and burn. It's got a promise to it, says that things will be better when it's done. Cleaner. Brand new.

He's been real fond of the smell since he was eight and he burnt down the neighbours barn. The neighbour was a piece of shit, and Matchsticks let all the animals out before he burnt it down, he doesn't feel any real guilt over it. Now, the house he burnt when he was twelve? He's still got some guilt about that. Burning alive isn't a nice way to go, especially when you're just a little old lady.

It's okay though. He made sure to get her a real nice stone. And he still donates to the church, just like she woulda wanted.

But that was then, and this is now, standing in a business that's about to become a pile of ashes. The key to a good spot of arson is to make it look like an accident. They won't pay out if it looks like you burnt it down on purpose, but if it 'accidentally' burns down while you've got a nice public alibi? Yeah, that'll get you cash.

Matchsticks loves doing this. He would do it for free if he could. Not everybody makes a living doing the thing they love, and he knows how lucky he is to know that every morning, he's going to get money to burn things down. Or people. Or threaten to burn things and people. It's a good gig. There's always something in need of a good burning.

He stuffs the last soaked rag in behind the dryer and makes sure that it's in nice and tight. The dryer hose will make a great fuse. The fire will rise right up out of the basement and burn the whole place down. And there's enough little helpers here and there to make sure it keeps burning once it starts.

He checks on the pile of old paint cans that have been hanging around in the corner since approximately the time the owner decided he was tired of selling penny candy and bolts of fabric to snot-nosed kids and their harried mothers. Matchsticks makes sure to run a nice fuse over to them in the shape of a clothes line, hung with soaked socks. The heaviest stuff goes right overtop the cans, just waiting to drop in on fire once the thin rope burns through.

Matchsticks takes one last gander at his handiwork. Perfect. He digs into his pocket and yanks out a book of matches. Matchsticks strikes one and then lights the rest of the book on fire, tossing it behind the dryer. He waits until he hears the familiar whump of the rags catching fire and then gets the hell out of the basement.

It takes an hour to burn down. He watches from across the street, just staring at the flames and soaking in their beautiful destructive power.

 

 _Eggs & Biscuits_

They're not too bright, but they've never had trouble following instructions, so long as they're clear and straightforward. There's nothing so clear and straightforward as this.

"You gonna pay up the protection fee?" Eggs asks the man.

"I c-can't," He stutters out, and Eggs smashes the clerk's face right into one of the glass cases. It doesn't break, but it cracks, and when he pulls the clerk's face away, there's a nice spiderweb of glass, a few drops of red caught in it.

"Check it out," Eggs tells Biscuits, gesturing to the case.

Biscuits takes a look, "Oh that's pretty great. Did he see it?"

"Lemme make sure," Eggs smashes the clerk into the case again. It cracks even harder this time, and when he pulls the clerk away, there are little bits of glass in his forehead, "Pretty great, right?"

"I t-told you, I-" Again with the protesting. Eggs just looks at Biscuits and sighs. He hates it when they don't follow instructions. Eggs knows how to do it. Biscuits knows how to do it. Why can't they do it too.

"You see this glass?" Eggs doesn't shove his face into it, just forces him to take a good look at it, "See it? Pretty expensive to replace right? So, we come in here and we break this stuff every week."

"We're good at breaking things," Biscuits adds, rapping his knuckles on a display case, "Real good. Always find something to break."

"Always. So you have to pay to replace it. Eventually, you run out of money. You close this place. Maybe you try go elsewhere," Eggs shook his head, "What a disappointment."

"So disappointing," Biscuits adds just that extra emphasis that they need, the oomph to make Eggs' words clearer, "But we ain't gonna stop."

"That's right. You can stop. But we'll follow you. Anywhere you go, we'll be there," Eggs gestures with his free-hand, the other still holding the Clerk's neck tight, "All over this world, you turn around, guess who's there?"

"Surprise, it's us!" Biscuits leans heavily on another display case, the creak of unsteady glass impossible to ignore, "We're just dropping by to say hello! Maybe to cut up your car tires!"

"Maybe to break a leg or two," Eggs tightens his grip and smashes the clerk's head into the glass one last time. The glass shatters this time and Eggs lets go of him, letting the clerk fall to the floor. His forehead is really bleeding now, a ton of blood streaming out of it. He crouches down, looking at the sore clerk, "Do the math."

The clerk finally gets it, eyes stuck on the floor, "f-fine. Okay. I'll. I'll pay up."

"Hey, lookit that! Atta boy!" Eggs stands back up, "We'll be back for the cash in three days time."

"See you soon!" Biscuits gets off the case before it can break for real and the two of them head out. Eggs couldn't be happier with his job, and the same goes for Biscuits. It's not many places that let you work your best friend all day.

 

 _Quarters_

It's pouring outside, been pouring for three days straight. Rain keeps running into his collar, no matter how high he has it turned up, and his shoes are sodden. The only blessing is that it's warm out, so at least he isn't soaked and freezing.

This is his forth day standing by the door, his third in the rain, and there's still another few days to go before this gig is up and he gets paid in full. Being hired muscle is good pay, but sometimes you've got to take whatever work you're offered, even if that work is doing nothing but guarding a door.

Quarters doesn't know what's behind it, but he's being paid not to know. He's the least curious person alive, a skill that's come in very handy when working for men who are willing to kill if you even think about asking a question other than "what do you want me to do now?". Still, four days outside, three of them in the rain, and it's hard for even the least curious person alive to not start wondering what's inside.

He's clearly not the only one who's been wondering. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the red of brake lights reflecting off of the rain slicked buildings. Quarters gets his machine gun up and gets some cover in the doorway. His employer isn't due here for another few hours.

Quarters counts three guys as they come around the corner. They're all heavily armed, scanning the alley for signs of Quarters. But they can't see him in the sunken doorway, and with his hat off, there's no way of telling if it's the side of an eye looking at them or some sort of decoration. Quarters takes a deep breath to steady himself and steps out, shooting at them.

Bullets spray through the alley, hitting stone and pavement, and flesh. The others don't have much of a chance to react. They all jerk around as they're filled full of lead and collapse onto the ground. Quarters keeps firing until he's sure they're dead. And even then, he gets back into the doorway, waiting to see if they've got company. But there's no other noises after the echoes of machine gun fire fall away, just the heavy drizzle of rain.

Blood washes away from the bodies and Quarters waits in the rain, sniffling a little. Damnit, he better not get a cold from this.

 

 _Cans_

The crowd howls, but in the dressing rooms with their thick concrete walls, the sound can barely be heard at all. It always reminds Cans of putting seashells up to his ears and hearing the roar of his own blood echoed back at him.

The cornerman gets Can's gloves onto his overly large fists, lacing them up tight, all while Cans regards the men gathered around him with disdain, "I ain't throwing a fight."

"We're not asking you to throw it," The ringleader's the only one who hasn't pissed Cans off so far, and that's because he didn't come in here waving cash around, acting like Cans can be bought with a briefcase of cash, "We just want you to go easy on our guy. We need him to last until round five."

"I said, I ain't throwing a fight," Cans knows a dive when he sees one. If he goes out there and takes it easy, everybody will see him doing that. He's got a reputation and he plans on keeping it.

"We know about your… troubles. We're willing to make them disappear," The ringleader's just asking for a punch to the face now. There are a few things you don't do to Cans, and the number one thing you never ever do is suggest that he might need help.

"Listen up you creeps," Cans steps in close, using his height and size to remind them that Cans has a few feet on even the tallest of the men, "Ya make any reference to my family again, and they'll be picking pieces of your skull outta the walls for the next dozen years. Got it?"

"Drop the fake accent," The ringleader is the only one who doesn't look scared, "You've got a Masters degree. I read your paper on the women's suffrage movement."

Cans stops dead. When he speaks, his voice is as it normally is when he's with his family, quiet and intellectual, "If you read my paper, then you know that I've made my decision. No amount of money will change my principals."

"I read it. I also know what a guy like you could do if you had enough dollars," The ringleader gestures and one of the other guys produces a briefcase. He opens it up, showing Cans the cash inside, wrapped up in rubber bands and just waiting to be spent, "There's enough in here to help your family out of debt and to get you back to school. Or you can give it all away to help the suffragists. Or whatever else you want. All you have to do is go a little easy."

It's tempting. But he's better than this. Cans reaches out and shuts the briefcase, "Get out of here, and don't ever come back."

"Just remember we offered," The ringleader motions for the men to follow and they finally leave. The door swings open as they exit and the sound of the crowd rushes in. Cans checks his gloves to make sure they're fine and holds out his arms as his cornerman gets his golden robe on.

"C'mon," He says, accent bleeding back into his voice, and he heads out to the ring to win himself another fight.


End file.
